


starships were meant to fly.

by rushie



Category: Nancy Drew (Video Games)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-30
Updated: 2014-03-30
Packaged: 2018-01-17 14:37:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1391359
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rushie/pseuds/rushie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first time the boys met Sonny Joon, he had green hair.</p>
            </blockquote>





	starships were meant to fly.

**Author's Note:**

> At some point, I hope to come back and heavily edit this/clean it up so that it's SUPER RAD instead of just kind of rad, but you know. For now, I needed to get it out.

The first time the boys met Sonny Joon, he had green hair.

ATAC had informed Frank and Joe that they were bringing in a tech consultant. Joe’s technological knowledge was fairly comprehensive, but apparently he had _nothing_ on this guy. The higher-ups wouldn’t actually tell Frank and Joe anything else about him, just that he was one of the best and they could trust him. So when they entered ATAC headquarters and found a gangling twenty-something lounging in Joe’s desk chair, hair greener than a clover, they were more than a little confused.

“Ah, the boys are back in town!” he said, bouncing to his feet.

Joe took to him immediately, grinning widely and bounding forward to shake the guy’s hand. “Yeah, you must be Sonny Joon!”

“That’s me!”

Frank introduced himself but then kept quiet while Joe and Sonny chatted. Frank didn’t know what to make of him. He looked like someone who was trying hard to be taken somewhat seriously. He had put on a suit, but the shirt was half untucked and the top few buttons were undone; the jacket was slung over the back of Joe’s chair, and he had rolled his sleeves up to his elbows. He was loosely wearing a dark gray tie, patterned with light gray alien heads, and green Chuck Taylors that it looked like he’d doodled on in Sharpie. The rims of his glasses were bright green, and he pushed them up his nose with his pinkie.

“So,” said Sonny Joon, clapping and rubbing his palms together. “The man upstairs tells me you boys are having trouble with a hacker.”

Joe nodded. “Yeah, looks that way.”

Frank put his hands in his pockets and leaned against the doorframe. “So you’re going to be our ATAC contact while we’re in the field.”

“Yep.” Sonny looked between the two of them and grinned, a little crazily. “So—when do we get outfitted with all the cool spy gear?”

 

* * *

 

“Do you think I’d look good with green hair?” Joe asked, checking his reflection sun visor’s mirror.

Frank glanced over before turning his eyes back to the road. “ _Please_ don’t dye your hair green.”

“Why not?” He snapped the sun visor back into place and relaxed back in the seat. “Sonny’s hair is green.”

Frank rolled his eyes. “Sonny also wears an _alien-patterned_ tie.”

“ _I_ could wear an alien-patterned tie.”

“ _Joe_.”

“What? I could!” Joe looked over at his brother, eyebrow arched. “You’re just jealous because _you_ can’t rock Chucks and a suit.”

Frank pinched the bridge of his nose and took a deep breath. “You’re right, Joe,” he deadpanned. “I’m jealous because I don’t look like the next _Doctor Who_ regeneration.”

Joe smiled smugly and looked out the window. “There, Frank. Was _that_ so hard?”

Despite Frank’s misgivings, Sonny Joon was an important asset on the case. Joe was already singing his praises before they’d even caught the hacker they’d been after. Frank caught him eyeing green hair dye in a novelty store before he dragged him away. But Frank knew when to admit he was wrong. He had seriously misjudged Sonny Joon; he knew what he was doing better than anyone Frank had ever met. When they’d wrapped up the case and returned to ATAC headquarters, they found him preparing to leave. He’d traded in the suit for jeans and a graphic t-shirt with a cow being abducted into a space ship. He shook their hands and saluted them on his way to the elevator.

“See you around, Sonny,” Joe said, pumping the guy’s arm enthusiastically.

“Thanks for all your help,” Frank added.

Sonny grinned. “Hey, my pleasure. And the next time you see Nancy,” he added over his shoulder, “tell her I said hi.”

The elevator doors closed behind him, and Frank and Joe looked at one another.

“How does he know Nancy?” Joe asked.

That wasn’t the last they saw of Sonny Joon. He’d pop up wherever and whenever they least expected him—in a Parisian café, on a bus in Russia, fishing on the dock in Bayport when they returned from their case aboard a submarine. They’d spend the rest of the day chatting with him, catching up. Sonny’s hair color was never the same twice, and Joe started asking him what kind of dedication it took to dye his hair.

(“I mean, do you even _remember_ your real hair color? What if your hair was naturally green? Can that happen, Frank? So how much _do_ you spend on hair dye? I’m thinking of going green.”)

No matter how casual Sonny was, Frank could never shake the feeling that there was something… _planned_ about these meetings. The more he got to know Sonny Joon, the less he actually _knew_. Sonny was a walking, talking enigma wrapped in aliens and hair coloring. Frank trusted him, or at least _thought_ he did. Sonny was smarter than most people would give him credit for. He was charming, charismatic, but there was something behind his wacky glasses and slightly off-balance smile. Frank didn’t know what, exactly, Sonny was wrapped up in. He didn’t think it was anything illicit, but it made him curious.

One day they found him sitting in the park, face buried behind a newspaper, but there was no mistaking the ombré blue and purple of his hair. They went over to say hello, Joe waving and about to call out, when Sonny made a sharp hissing noise, and the newspaper twitched. Frank and Joe stopped and looked at one another.

“ _Sit back there,_ ” Sonny hissed, jerking his head to indicate the bench that was back-to-back with his own.

“You’re not serious,” Frank said, exchanging raised eyebrows with Joe.

The paper twitched irritably again, and Frank sighed, leading the way around the bench and sitting down. This was ridiculous.

“So,” Frank began, speaking in what he hoped was an appropriately quiet tone, “what’s with the cloak-and-dagger?”

“Oh, nothing,” Sonny said brightly. “I’ve just always wanted to do this. How was the case?”

“Pretty good,” Joe said. He made to turn around, but Sonny made an irritable noise (“You’re ruining my _dream_ , Joe!”), and he faced front again. “Art theft, you know, always interesting stuff. One of the artists let us keep something, too—just yanked it right off her painting and asked us to leave something behind in return.”

Frank had had his suspicions about the curly-haired artist with her bohemian skirts and bangled wrists. His thoughts were confirmed when Sonny murmured, “I _thought_ that baseball cap looked familiar…”

Frank tried to think of something to say, but Sonny beat him to it. “So! Talk to Nancy lately? What’s she up to?”

Joe looked at Frank, who stared resolutely ahead. He cleared his throat, then looked at his shoes and avoided Frank’s eyes. “She’s—she’s entering some kind of contest. Like an _Amazing Race_ thing. Pacific Run or something.”

There was an audible _rip_ as Sonny very nearly tore his newspaper in two. All attempts at covert ops forgotten, he swung around on the bench. He looked at them, his slightly crazy smile spreading across his face, his eyebrow arched, his glasses askew and slipping precariously down his nose.

“Oh, _really_?”


End file.
